We're entering the run up to the one year anniversary of Dom's onset of acute gvhd and subsequent two month hospital stay, weeks in Sacramento, and consecutive days driving to Sacramento. Which, as you know, followed a year of chemo, transplant and months away from home.
It's an interesting time for me. Two years ago at this time, we hadn't yet had our world crumble beneath our feet. We were coming into our own. We were both working, he picking up speed in commercial photography, and me finally confident enough to teach a yoga class without four hours of preparation before hand. We were exploring the way we wanted to do things, and just beginning to feel stable in our finances after our own separate setbacks. Life was beginning to look really good. With the exception of being childless, I'd say it was perfect.
It's odd to look back. There's not just a before and after but multi layers of befores and afters.
Last year about this time, I was adjusting to home. I was just beginning to feel like we'd soon return to normalcy. I was beginning to feel like I could breathe. I was also beginning to wonder what to do with myself. The weeds were cut, I was caught up at work. I was sending SOS emails to friends that I was ready and desperate to connect.
I was wondering what our four year anniversary would look like. On the one hand, we don't have big expectations of each other. On the other hand, we felt like we'd beat some odds and should celebrate.
But, our anniversary came, and Dom was ill in bed. I'd received an anniversary card from a relative, and just had to shove it aside. I couldn't process where we were or what was happening. I was going numb.
Days later, Dom would be fighting for his life in the hospital.
And so, just weeks before the one year anniversary of diagnosis we were back on the hamster wheel of the hospital. And it felt normal to not be autonomous but to be at the mercy of a disease most people don't understand, and under strict instructions for life. It felt normal to work from a hospital room. It felt normal to have people shuffling in and out of the room I made my bed in. It felt normal to make quick trips home to check in with kitties. It then felt normal to be back home making near daily trips to the doctor when we returned home late last summer.
Obviously, as the old saying goes, normal is just a setting on the washing machine.
There will never be a normal normal for us.
There will be days that we float through, allowing ourselves the space to just be and enjoy. There will be other days we uselessly fret and wonder.
There are days I'm beyond miserable and I forget the things I ought to remember. And there are days I escape through television. There are days I'm so immersed in work I don't have time to worry or fret or conversely to connect with my soul. Then there are days I just set it all aside and do whatever my heart desires. My heart desires to get lost in reading or to be in the garden or nesting in the house. My choice in reading material seems to be a reflection of our situation. I haven't been able to get into novels; I've only been able to digest essays. That's what our life feels like. Not one great story, but little essays.
I'm most drawn to informative pieces about the world we live in (read politics) and spiritual essays that point me in the direction I want to go.
And this quote keeps popping up: "To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow." Audrey Hepburn.
For two years my garden has faltered in my absence. My neighbor, who of course is far more to me than neighbor, helped more than I could begin to repay; but it didn't flourish as it could have as it is my garden to tend to. My neighbor could help, but the true work is mine. The Bermuda grass took over the pumpkin patch. The cucumbers withered. The strawberries became a feast for rodents. The peonies did bloom before we went back to the hospital and I did savor with my eyes every blossom.
I'm in the thick of it right now. It's finally stopped raining and I've waist high weeds to battle. I've been out nearly every morning cutting back the weeds, and I'm back out in the evenings lately. Someone suggested we get goats, and I welcome goats if someone also wants to build fences and enclosures to keep them safe at night. We did just have a mountain lion, likely with babies eat a deer just beyond our back field. And I'm not complaining about the task either. I'm so beyond grateful to live where I do, it's all part of the package.
My mom offered to get me soil this year for the garden. One year, I hope to have fenced in boxes to keep all the critters out. But for now, I work with what I have. We went out on one of the hottest days in April and got a truck load of soil. (It was in the 90's F). I wasn't even thinking sunscreen as it had just been pouring down rain recently. First burn of the season under my belt.
My mom and I talked about how fearful I was to invest time and energy into the garden. As I shoveled a very large pile of dirt into varying boxes and containers, I was both excited and sad. Would I be able to look after the garden this year? Would I be able to tend to it and make it thrive?
I don't even know.
But to plant a garden is to plant hope.
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| This is what's left after filling all my containers! Lots of hope. |
So, with each shovel full, I poured out my hopes. Not just for fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, not just for whimsical pumpkins to adorn my house in the Autumn, not just for strawberry juice to drip down my chin, but hopes for tomorrow. Hopes for today even. Hopes Dom to be strong and pain free, hopes for adventures together celebrating life, hopes for work to come, hopes for purpose in our lives beyond just paying bills and getting by, hopes for so many sweet things I couldn't yet begin to imagine.
The garden means far more to me than a way to bring fresh healthy food to the table.
And
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| A glimpse of tomorrow |
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| A gift of daffodils at attention |
as I cultivate the garden outside, I am reminded to cultivate the garden inside. I am reminded it needs attention. I am reminded it needs to be poured into and tended to. There are weeds to be pulled and branches to be pruned. It will be thirsty and need feeding.
The seeds of hope are planted. The watering can is at the ready. The days are full of hope and promise.
And I am ready to see what springs forth.
